


Call It Any Name You Need

by dagnylilytable



Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Friendship, Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:09:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dagnylilytable/pseuds/dagnylilytable
Summary: Booze, feminism, and something like friendship.





	Call It Any Name You Need

**Author's Note:**

> This story centers around 3.15, “Break in Diplomacy,” better known as the one where Elizabeth punches the patriarchy, but finishes during 3.18, “Good Bones.” 
> 
> Thanks to Mosca for beta. 
> 
> Story title is taken from Vienna Teng's "Level Up."

The barrage of uncivil text messages will stop-at least until the next time Russell Jackson needs something. Blake shuts the car door behind the Secretary, and Nadine breathes a sigh of relief.

It’s been a long time since she’s stayed behind during a trip abroad. Compared to President Andrada’s posturing, an evening at the Russian embassy watching _Office Romance_ sounds positively delightful. No doubt everyone will leave early today, which she’ll do her best to seem like she’s sternly tolerating rather than welcoming. She’d rather not explain her evening plans. Even though only Matt and Blake know she usually prefers Chekhov, she doesn’t want to advertise that the ambassador’s chief of staff is obsessed with Soviet kitsch and leaks like a sieve.

The rest of the morning is a whirlwind—minding the store with over half the interns on spring break means twice as many interruptions. She barely looks up when Daisy waves on her way to lunch.

Just when she’s ready to think about leaving, her e-mail digest of pending legislation pops up. With House sponsorship, Senator Fletcher is pushing to expand the Hyde Amendment. The usual language about the “sanctity of life” and “conscience protection,” only this time it will effectively ban federal coverage for Plan B.

She skims the bill again and looks up the number for her friend Dana, Chief of Staff to the Minority Whip. No one knew more PTA gossip in Roman’s elementary school than Dana did, and she hasn’t lost her touch.

After the usual pleasantries—Nadine is relieved to be able to accurately report her son’s whereabouts—she decides to be blunt.

“So it’s possible six years working for a man who could plot a coup under my nose has made me paranoid, but here’s what I’m seeing. They don’t care if POTUS vetoes this so long as they can come back with a more ‘moderate’ bill that still guts contraceptive access. At minimum we need a way to protect federal employees...”

“I wish I could tell you you’re wrong. But that’s what Fletcher’s chief of staff said over drinks at the Brickmore yesterday. Not drinks with me, you understand…”

“Of course,” she says.

“Are you going to get into it? I can’t see the Secretary taking this one lying down.”

“I’ll have to see. I can’t reach out to Russell Jackson, even indirectly, until all my ducks are in a row. After all, the man has been known to shoot actual ducks.”

\--

After three more phone calls and six meetings, Nadine texts Gael to be sure they’re still on for dinner. She’ll eat at home regardless—the mayonnaise at the Russian embassy events is a semiannual indulgence at best.

It’s been almost a year since they last met—they never rescheduled after missing _Uncle Vanya_ at the Kennedy Center after the dirty bomb. Nadine only has one friend who loves romantic comedies and speaks Russian—more’s the pity, since Gael insists her father knew Nabokov in Paris every single time they meet, as if she’s never heard the story before.

When the bell rings, Nadine pauses to check that the La Garrocha Amontillado has chilled sufficiently in the small fridge she reserves for temperamental alcohol. At least Gael knows the difference between _jamón serrano_ and _jamón ibérico._ The Spanish cooking class she took during Vincent’s three week vacation with Arabelle has stood her in good stead. She sometimes regrets not noticing that his absences were more valuable to her than his presence. Then again, if she’d ended it sooner they might be at war with Iran now. It’s probably not the first time a sentimental fool saved the world—though it will be the last time Nadine is the fool in question.

As usual, her year has been more eventful than she can talk about. But Gael’s translating a new volume of French plays she’s happy to complain about until it’s time to leave. She seems to think Arena Stage will have decent shows running in the fall.

They arrive with about half an hour left in the reception, and the ambassador’s assistant hurries over as soon as she’s holding a glass of champagne. Thankfully, Gael runs into an old friend from her days in Kiev at the same time.

She agrees with Alexander that Andrei Miagkov is an unparalleled comedic talent. His shyness and boyish charm has grown on her since the first time she saw the film on state television in Belarus decades ago.

Even if she’d had to fake the enthusiasm, it would have been worth it—she has a clear picture of the ambassador’s unofficial schedule for the next two weeks by the time the movie starts.

Halfway through, she realizes she did need to laugh—and the terrible Soviet fashion would do it even if the acting were awful, which it isn’t.

She pleads exhaustion when Gael suggests a nightcap nearby. Blake has promised to call at seven her time to keep her in the loop on the meetings with Andrada.

\--

She’s at her desk by six forty five, and her phone is already ringing. Something must be wrong. Her stomach sinks as she realizes it’s not Blake’s number on the screen.

“Nadine, good morning.”

“Good morning, ma’am. Is everything alright?”

“More or less… Okay, mostly less. It turns out President Andrada’s written his own definition of friendly relations between nations.”

“Ma’am?” It’s too early to make any assumptions about what that means.

A sigh. “This is probably my last conversation with someone who will just sympathize for a minute before diving into policy. I guess I’m making the most of it.“

Nadine waits again. Two ma’ams in less than two minutes verges on obsequious, and she can’t begin to unpack this without more information.

“I …” The Secretary sighs. “He groped me while my back was turned and I broke his nose. He took it about as well as your average clinical narcissist, so Blake and I are on our way back. Hopefully I’ll be back in time to prevent him from forcing our troops to leave as quickly as I did.”

Nadine’s fists clench, and she forces herself to focus on the practical details first.

“I’m…ma’am. I’m so sorry that happened to you. Will you need a doctor?”

“I’m okay, Nadine. Just … get Daisy in to see what Andrada does next, and brief the staff for me? I … can’t even bring myself to open Google right now.” Her voice cracks on the last few words, and Nadine winces in sympathy even as she recognizes no one can see.

“Of course, ma’am. See you soon.”

The Secretary will be fine. She snorts, glad to be alone in the office as she confronts the absurdity of not knowing what to call her boss in her own thoughts. Three years in, and she has never once said “Elizabeth,” even to Henry, who insisted on first names years ago. Vincent was always Vincent, but their professional relationship always felt more like a cover story, even before it all became layers of lies.

Nadine has privately wondered how Russell Jackson decided he had the right to call her “Bess.” She certainly can’t ask Henry why he never does.

Just as she’s trying to bring her thoughts in a more productive direction by doing some filing, her phone buzzes rapidly. Texts from Blake.

“This conversation is not happening. She’s in the office with the meditation app on high. She’s already eaten an emergency brownie, and we’ve only been in the air two hours.”

“You have the stash map,” she writes.

“Yes, but my cloud access isn’t working, and your copy is two weeks out of date.”

As she’s preparing to reply, he anticipates her.

“Daisy’s copy is _three_ weeks out of date. I stand by my decision not to trust Matt with this kind of sensitive intelligence.”

Years of experience suggest that the last message is tinged with panic, and that he needs something to focus on besides inventory, so she asks the most important question she can think of.

“She really doesn’t need a doctor?”

“I texted Dr. McCord. He says he’ll make her a hair appointment.”

“Hair appointment” is the code the two of them use for her therapy sessions—it’s rarely a matter for the official schedule, but better safe than sorry.

The three dots on her iPhone steadily blink. She taps her fingers on the desk and waits. This will be long. She goes to start the coffeemaker, like it’s any other day when Blake’s not here to do it.

“I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t ask until we were in the car. She’s never quiet unless…Then she said she had to call Henry and I cranked up _Wicked_ until she was off the phone and found the M &M cookies.”

The three dots stay steady, but she can’t stop herself from typing, “What happened next?”

“She said, ‘I haven’t punched a boy for getting fresh since I was in the fifth grade.’ Then, she laughed, and I wanted to hand her a paper bag, but she took a deep breath on her own and told me, ‘President Andrada assaulted me and I … I reacted. My combat training kicked in. Not my most diplomatic moment.’

I was an idiot. I said the first thing that came to mind after I reminded myself I have a responsibility to avoid mansplaining toxic masculinity to my boss. I told her I haven’t felt this angry and powerless since the pigeons in my apartment scared my cat. She laughed, but I should have been more eloquent.”

Nadine is suddenly doubled over with laughter herself, grateful this is not a video call. When she can see past the tears in her eyes, she responds,

“I’m certain she understood. You know she loves animals.”

She hears the elevator just as Blake tells her the white noise is off and he has to go. That will be Daisy. Nadine sighs and glances down at a budget memo as if it will tell her how to explain what’s happened without parroting a wrathful Gloria Steinem channeling Laura Mulvey—only the first reference would register with Daisy, anyhow.

 

\--

The Secretary is tied up in meetings at the White House, so Nadine decides it’s a good time to battle Congress. She calls in her intern.

Noor’s hijab is in Nationals colors today. There must be a home game tonight. She’ll avoid that part of town. She always takes her exceptional interns to lunch once a month—Noor has been here three months and they’ve had lunch five times.

“Miss Tolliver, you mentioned this morning you’re tracking Senator Fletcher’s new bill. My girlfriend works at CBO and she says the score is terrible—they’ll have trouble getting the votes. Even with the senators who are angry the president refused to reinstate the global gag rule.”

“The CBO score matters less than one would hope. Fiscal responsibility is only the watchword when it gives corporations kickbacks to pave paradise and put up a parking lot. “

“Oh, right. Counting Crows?”

Noor’s wink saves Nadine from feeling decrepit or despairing that everyone has forgotten Joni Mitchell.

“I know you’re working on other things, but can you pull up our last few reports on federal health insurance and the Foreign Service? I have to call a journalist friend and I need numbers.”

 

Three hours after Noor has been and gone with the figures, Nadine thinks she should not feel this exhilarated from a morning of phone calls to save women’s health from theocrats. Especially not knowing what the outcome of the Secretary’s White House meetings will be.

She’s left messages with every contact she has at USAID, every Congressional staff member who owes her favors, and the dozen others she actually likes. Most have called her back by lunch. All of them think the bill will die on its own, but they loathe Fletcher and want to encourage a primary challenger. All of them are women who have used emergency contraception or other services Fletcher wants to gut.

Now they all have the number of Vanessa Chung’s replacement at the _Chronicle_. Nadine might not be as tech savvy as Oliver Shaw, but she can come as close as possible to making a smartphone ring off its hook.

The journalist calls back, eager to supplement the DC angle with interviews with federal employees in the proverbial “Real America’’ who also depend on comprehensive health coverage.

It’s unseemly to still be giddy with success when the news comes in about Andrada’s other victims. She takes a deep breath and heads for the Secretary’s office—convincing her to go public won’t be easy.

\--

After the Secretary dismisses her—and the idea of coming forward—it’s all Nadine can do to nod to Blake as he leaves. The last time she felt this at sea, Arabelle Marsh was in her office. Part of her would love to go home to a glass of single malt, but she’s got a lead on Russell Jackson’s whereabouts.

When she arrives, Nadine reminds herself not to open with what the hell a cardiac patient is doing at a place called Smokin’ Al’s.

The skepticism must show on her face, because he says, “I’m just here for the cornbread. And I walked most of the way here. Carol tries, but she just can’t get it right.”

“I’m here because I’m neck deep in something you should know about.”

“I assume it has something to do with the Minority Whip apologizing to me personally for Fletcher’s cockamamie bill. Could you enlighten me further, please? He sounds like my big brother did the day our granddaddy caught him cussing at a craps table.”

She sighs. “Remember when you told me that we take the hits so they don’t have to?”

The frown deepens, but not in a way that tells her he’s thoroughly pissed off.

“I lost sight of that an hour ago, but I can still fix it. If the bill is in any danger of passing, the _Chronicle_ will run a story with quotes from every federal employee we could find who needs the health coverage Fletcher thinks Jesus hates.”

He stares. She’d swear he was taking deep breaths and counting them.

“I suppose I should be grateful you’re not after my job. And you should be grateful my wife complains about the Hyde Amendment every week. Telling her this story will buy me a month’s worth of late nights.”

She sips her iced tea, and he doesn’t say anything else. Maybe he knows that she was hoping to be yelled at and wants to deprive her of the masochistic satisfaction.

 

\--

Nadine doesn’t watch Andrada’s press conference. She waits by the elevator, as if it’s still morning. She wants to be the one to break the good news that the calendar is unexpectedly clear, and there’s no reason to stay late.

Instead, the Secretary says softly, “My office, please.”

“Did everything go well at the White House?” Her voice is even, and she’s proud of that.

“Oh, fine. I’m just not ready to face Jason and Henry debating summer STEM programs yet. And I was just hoping you could tell me more about why Russell Jackson asked me to pass on his congratulations.”

Nadine sighs, resisting the urge to put her head in her hands like she’s in a Russian melodrama.

“I … did some networking to kill Senator Fletcher’s Hyde Amendment expansion. That may have involved some veiled … hints. About a reporter who was preparing a lengthy interview series with women whose lives and careers have been saved due to comprehensive coverage.”

Elizabeth—she’s trying it out since this conversation has taken such an unexpectedly personal turn—raises an eyebrow. “Were you going to tell me about this?”

“I was, but I have to admit that after last night, I was considering having Blake work it into his morning overview.”

“It’s not like you to downplay your accomplishments,” Elizabeth says, almost gently.

“I’m not very good at apologies—for a long time they struck me as sentimental admissions of failure.”

“So…saving federal contraceptive coverage is how you apologize for…” she stops, starts again. “Our last conversation?”

Nadine nods, reminding herself she hasn’t actually blushed since the Carter administration. “I’m still embarrassed. I was living here when Anita Hill was a household name, after all.” She winces, aware she’s begun to sound like a women’s studies textbook.

“I was on missions for most of the end of the first Bush administration,” Elizabeth says.“My first real DC was the one Bill Clinton jogged around after his McDonald’s stops. I can’t even get caught eating a muffin on camera without it meaning something. That’s what I was trying to say before. Whatever I feel privately …”

For Nadine to say she understands would be a lie. She can’t possibly. If this were Henry she’d mumble something about social justice and finishing the work, but this is not the right McCord for recycling childhood religious education. “I see it now. But it’s still bullshit.”

“Just so you know, you were on the right track as far as grand gestures go. I would have taken Plan B to Iran, but I couldn’t come up with any scenarios where my captors would remove a copper IUD while holding me hostage.” The Secretary’s mouth quirks in a pale imitation of her usual smile. Nadine sees herself out.

 

\--

 

The night before they leave for Singapore, Nadine sees a light on in the conference room.

It’s not news that Blake works in there at night, since it has more space for his external monitor. But that doesn’t account for his sudden interest in a PDF copy of _New Perspectives in International Conflict Resolution_. Nadine doesn’t have to step into the room to know that the subtitle is: “With An Introduction by Dr. Elizabeth A. McCord.” Nadine memorized the CVs of all Vincent’s possible replacements before Russell Jackson ever looked for Charlottesville on a map.

“Cramming for an exam? I’m certain the Secretary would be happy to help.” Her tone is light, but Blake doesn’t smile. This morning, he went out for two new types of popcorn. He started looking for more the day the Singapore seating chart went up with Andrada’s name on it. Nadine moves to stand next to him, and he pulls up a spreadsheet. All scholarly works by Dr. Elizabeth McCord, down to the ISBN and DOI.

“UVA’s Sorensen Institute is honoring the Secretary as its distinguished alumna this year. They asked her to sign this one. It was published the week she was sworn in because Joseph Nye was late with his article.” Only Blake could sniff disdainfully about the former Dean of the Kennedy School.

“And it’s urgent?”

“When she found out she also gets to discuss any two articles she’s written with a group of students, the Secretary … exclaimed? Something that sounded suspiciously like …” Blake clears his throat, but Nadine fills in for him.

“Wah-hoo-wah?”

Blake raises an eyebrow, so she goes on. “I had a housemate in law school who grew up there and never took her pearls off.”

“At least she didn’t ask me to sing ‘The Good Old Song,’” Blake says.

At this, they both smile.

Nadine decides not to tell him he’s left two list titles visible. “Low Stress Post-Singapore Agenda” hovers next to “Moral Support: Food.” It comes too close to the truth they’ve only spoken aloud once before: the Secretary of State does not have PTSD. But Elizabeth McCord does.

She resists the urge to pat his shoulder, resting her arm on his chair instead. And makes her own mental note to buy him a pack of his favorite pens. If things get really bad she’ll tell him she’s working on tickets to see Misty Copeland during their next New York trip.

\--

On the flight home, everyone is more relaxed, even Blake. The Secretary was polished, smooth, and unflappable. Her remarks are trending on social media.

Matt whispers to Jay that Andrada flinched when the Secretary went in for a handshake. Nadine pretends not to overhear. She takes a deep breath and decides she’s earned the chance to pull out a book. She always brings her first copy of _Villette_ on long plane trips.

She looks up after a few chapters because Blake just asked Daisy what she has against Hepburn movies.

“Nothing. I just think _Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner_ is for white liberals.”

The Secretary finds Nadine’s eyes. “Stevie says the only reason I love _Woman of the Year_ is because it’s about a working professional who can’t cook.”

Nadine laughs, but suddenly feels desperate to change the subject. She has too many memories of stultifying playground conversations to assume motherhood alone makes for real dialogue.

“Congratulations on your award from the Sorensen Institute, ma’am. What other works did you select?”

“Oh, the article on Vesuvian that blew up APSA a few years back is a given. But I picked an old one from my master’s thesis, even though I almost published it as E.A. McCord because it upended a lot of conventional wisdom about quantitative research methods.” Elizabeth grins a little wistfully at the memory.

“Maybe now would be a good time to have it re-published—perhaps a small volume on scholarship and public service?” Nadine bites her lip, suddenly aware that this, too, could be out of bounds.

“You know, you might be right. I can probably handle a few hostile academics.”

“With enough wine,” Nadine adds, before she can help herself. Everyone laughs at that—apparently their conversation got interesting enough to overhear. Nadine puts the book aside.

\--

The day after they sit in the conference room watching the van full of dead girls, Nadine feels like the only one who didn’t find Jay’s poem very comforting. She starts reading a report on NGOs in Central Asia to kill time. At 6:30, Blake knocks carefully on her open door. “The Secretary asked me to have you come to her office. She wants to … read you in on something.” He’s trying to keep his face neutral and failing utterly. Somehow, he knows she’s already following him in.

As she enters, the Secretary is unscrewing a panel from her desk.

“Only Henry and Blake know this is here. Silverback Whisky from Afton—two of Henry’s former students co-own the distillery.” Blake smiles at her, and bows as he leaves, clearly hamming it up in the role of temporary butler.

Afton is near Charlottesville, Nadine remembers. This is almost like drinking the honey pepper vodka her uncle claimed was a secret recipe from the Old Country. Knowing Uncle Ari, he picked it up somewhere in Pittsburgh.

“I’m honored to be read in, ma’am.”

“I could go home, see my kids. I’d probably feel better.”

“You could,” Nadine said.

“But that’s the thing about being the one who has to give the pep talks and rally the troops. Sometimes you aren’t ready to feel better yet. Because sometimes it feels like … it’s always women we’re drinking to on the shitty days.”

“I wish I could argue with that, ma’am.”

“If you’re going to drink Virginia booze with me, Nadine, you can’t call me ma’am.” The contraction comes out with a few extra vowels—Nadine’s never heard that before and for some reason it makes her bold.

“Elizabeth, are we going to talk about drinking or drink?”

“A fair question.”

“To Lara Cramer.”

“To all the women in the fight.”

They drink in silence that is almost prayerful.


End file.
